


witches brew

by brevity_ofwit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amortentia 2.0, Anathema is Not Amused, Aziraphale is a bumbling fool, Bickering, Completed, Crowley has to buffer like a 144p youtube video, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley stop mocking your husband!, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), anathema is a witch and brews a love potion, because he is also a fool, bickering like an old married couple, maybe i'll work on that in a new fic, sorry - Freeform, that's mean!, they aren't married in this tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevity_ofwit/pseuds/brevity_ofwit
Summary: Anathema tries her hand at the real world's amortentia. our ineffable duo barge in for drinks around the same time, and somewhere between the first two hours, Aziraphale fucks up. a secret is revealed, later two, and Anathema is hesitant to ever host them again.





	witches brew

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by a tumblr text post I saw by @books-are-anasthetics. I hope they like this! Also, I tried to work Anathema dosing Shadwell, but I didn't know how to reason in him being there from London, or either of their paths meeting after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn't.
> 
> also, shout out to @ironycap on tumblr, thank you so much for your help editing!!!

Humans had an interesting habit of getting mostly everything wrong about the supernatural, but nailing just a few certain things absolutely on the head. Take into consideration, Harry Potter. Most of it was just physically impossible, but some things, like Amortentia, were just a hair off of the truth. Love potion, whilst harder to make and incredibly unstable under the inexpertise, was very real. Anathema should know, as she’d just finished brewing a pot out of sheer boredom on a particularly lacklustre morning.

In hindsight, she should have known that when life got a bit boring, one supernatural entity or another would barge their way into her cottage. So that was what lead to her serving drinks to an angel and a demon, steaming cocoa and tumbler of malt scotch.

Now, of course, Anathema had some worries about these two other-worldly beings and their ‘all action, little thought’ track record entering the site of an active brew. Lord only knew what they might meddle with, so that’s why she had covered the stove pot with a simple cloaking spell, disguising the bubbling concoction as a turquoise tea kettle.

Grand mistake, now that she thought back to it.

It was somewhere between the second and third hour that they’d been there when things began to go a bit pear-shaped.

Aziraphale, whilst Crowley and Anathema were locked in a deep conversation about second-wave feminism-- a subject Crowley had more stumbled into than anything one early spring in Rio-- busied himself with collecting their glasses and refilling them in the kitchen.  
Bustling around looking for the scotch was no problem. Then he’d moved on to the cocoa, which the dear girl had left out next to a lovely kettle the colour of the Carribean around Belize in summer. A careful touch revealed still heated water.

The thing with actual love potion is that it’s near undetectable when administered. It’s a clear liquid with no discernible taste, making it incredibly easy to mask in a drink or sprinkled over food. So that is why, against all odds and Anathema’s precautions, Aziraphale didn’t even blink twice while filling up his mug with the water-twin. He returned to the couches with no incident and drank happily away, watching the two expound on feminist literature. After a moment, he felt a haze fall over him, but it didn’t hold him very strong and he pushed through it with little force. If anything, he just felt a sort of gloss on everything around him. The room was brighter, their words sharper, the cocoa warmer in his grasp. Then the topic of Virginia Woolf piqued his interest, and a touching memory of the lady swept away any concern.

“Oh, Miss Woolf, what a wonderful young lady,” he said affectionately. “Exceptionally bright, and witty.”

This caught Crowley’s attention. “Did you know her?” he asked, reaching for his glass. The demon then reclined against the couch in a way only a former snake might.

“Only briefly,” he admitted. “She visited my shop during her time in Fitzrovia, and I dare say found refuge there in the years following all that tragedy. I was so sad to hear of her own passing-- I thought Sussex might be a good change for her.”

“‘Credible,” Crowley mused, rolling his tumbler round and round on his knee. “But I thought you said you never did like getting to know _them_.”

“Dear, that is no way to refer to humans,” Aziraphale admonished, tutting lightly. To Anathema, he said, “He is right, though. I was very tentative to make any lasting connections to the human world, afraid of growing too attached and then getting hurt. But I was half in love with the Bloomsbury Set and incredibly flattered by the invitation she’d extended in-”

“My God,” Anathema cut him off, dawning horror sinking her smile. Aziraphale startled and followed her line of sight to his cocoa. “ _What_ are you drinking?”

“Uh, cocoa?” he offered, confused. Crowley looked equally so, but a little too buzzed for the urgency in her voice. Aziraphale surmised the demon would be of no help in the increasingly tense situation. “What is the matter?”

“What did you use to make it?” she interrogated further, suddenly out of her seat and worriedly stepping around the table between them. She looked torn, half wanting to approach him, half wanting to race to the kitchen and check her potion. A more thorough appraisal of the angel forced her to stay put. His eyes held a faraway look in them, and his cheeks were a great deal rosier than when he had his first cup.

Now, this was getting quite ridiculous, Aziraphale thought, not noticing any change at all a cause for worry. “Why, the water from the kettle, of course! It was still warm, and I’d already had a cup so I thought there would be no harm, however, I can see how I might have overstepped-”

“Oh, fuck!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. He hands flew to either side of her head, nails digging into her scalp painfully, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Aziraphale frowned. “Now there really is no need for that kind of language.”

“No, you idiot, you just drank an entire glass of love potion!”

Crowley stirred at that. His brow furrowed, teeth bared in confusion. “Like from Harry Potter?” He asked, and then exclaimed, once the weight of her words hit him, “He _what?!_ ”

The demon surged forward and nearly dropped his glass. Aziraphale could see his eyes were wide and shining a particular shade of yellow, reminding him quite distantly of the colour seen adorning toxic waste bins.

Oh, so he was panicked. The thought registered only dimly in Aziraphale’s mind.

“I was brewing different potions when you stopped by and had to think quickly to disguise it because God only knows what you two might’ve done with exposed magical potions-”

“Fucking _avoided_ them, that’s what we’d ‘ave done!” Crowley interjected, aggravated.

“Oh, really? Because look at what he’s managed to do with it disguised.” She stuck an accusing finger at Aziraphale, who felt a lot like a kid caught out, fist still in the cookie jar.

“Well, it _was_ seemingly just a kettle,” the angel pointed out, needing to say something to defend himself. Anathema rolled her eyes in frustration.

“Alright, what does this potion do exactly?” Crowley asked, sounding incredibly sober.

“Well,” Anathema started, looking flustered. “It makes whoever ingests it fall in love with the first person in sight.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, and with a gesture to where Aziraphale still sat on the couch he continued, “but he’s not acting at all different than usual.”

The witch turned to the angel.

“Aziraphale,” she called sternly. “Who did you look at as soon as you came back into the living room?”

“Why, my dear Crowley of course,” he answered honestly, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. And possibly because the beatific glow around him made him feel a bit untouchable, he added, “He was laughing at something you said and I couldn’t help but notice the light catch in his hair. Reminded me rather much of fire.”

“I think we have our answer, then,” she said, a lot calmer than she was a moment before. She turned to the demon beside her and told him plainly, “He’s not acting any different because the potion doesn’t work when the first person he sees is one he’s already in love with. The only effect he’ll even notice from it is the entire world will seem a whole lot more vibrant.”

Crowley stopped breathing, frozen to the floorboards of Anathema’s cottage. The look on his face was a mix of shock and bewilderment. Anathema could practically _see_ the loading sign on his forehead, gears in his head working overtime to compute exactly what she’d said.

It went on like this for several long, awkward moments: Crowley buffering like a low-quality youtube video, Anathema looking bemused though very relieved, and Aziraphale sitting contently on the couch, only slightly nonplussed by the situation.

Finally, _finally_ , after an eternity, Crowley reanimated. His heart was thundering in his chest, cheeks reddened like cherries. He kept shifting his stance from one leg to the other, nervous energy so profound it nearly metastasized into a whole other being.

“Cool,” was all he could manage, though his voice cracked harshly.

Anathema rolled her eyes. “You two are idiots.”

“How rude! Crowley is incredibly intelligent! He has several degrees in architectural and civil engineering, and while it might have been for his rather nefarious scheming, the accomplishment cannot be knocked!” Aziraphale asserted, positively aggrieved on Crowley’s behalf. The notion made the demon blush harder. Anathema just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Suddenly, “It must not work.” He stated it as if the very words themselves pained him, and he looked like he feared a response, not quite sure if hearing that the potion was defective would fix anything.

“It would kill him if it were defective, and only if he were human,” she said very gently, then asked the angel, “Aziraphale, do you feel sick at all?”

“Just tickety-boo, my dear,” he answered. “Though I am quite famished.”

Crowley’s eyes closed. “My God,” he muttered, stunned.

“I can get the antidote,” she offered, feeling very guilty.

“Yes,” he breathed. “But I don’t suppose it’ll make a difference. He’ll still be-”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he sunk back into the couch, refilling his glass with a half-hearted wave.

Anathema left for her kitchen, digging around the shelf above her spices for a small, ornate silver flask. The top was stoppered with cork, though, ageing the piece significantly and separating it from any found in the modern market. Inside, purple liquid rested like honey, trapped between solid and liquid. She poured a thick stream onto a spoon and then heated it slowly over the stove’s flames until it bubbled. Then, with a hand beneath it, she walked back to the living room, mindful of the furniture. Aziraphale watched transfixed as she poured it into his cocoa and stirred round and round. The cocoa itself gave a quick puff of lavender smoke and then settled down into a very normal looking chocolate drink.

“Drink it,” she encouraged, so drink he did, eyelids sliding closed. “How do you feel now?”

When he reopened his eyes, the world no longer held the same gloss. Every colour was at its correct and usual frequency, their words were not as loud or as crisp, and all earthly sensations resorted back to dim presences. He related as much, best he could without alarming them, and then smiled. “Thank you for having us, Ms Device, it was lovely. But I think it’s past time we take our leave.”

She nodded, remnants of guilt still splayed on her face as she watched Aziraphale stand. “I’m sorry for the trouble, I didn’t mean to upset either of you.”

“Quite alright dear,” he soothed, understanding smile like a balm to her nerves. “Accidents happen, and we _are_ prone to them. Now, come along Crowley, I think we need to talk.”

Crowley rose slowly, looking every bit a man who did _not_ want to walk out that door and confront reality. However, he also looked very much like he didn’t want to stay, either, so he bit the bullet and trudged after his angel. He cast one last look at Anathema-- a silent plea, to which he went unanswered-- before the door shut behind him and they had gone.

Well, Anathema thought. That certainly could have gone worse.

What she didn’t know was that the carefully constructed world around Crowley had begun to crumble around him, laying in ruins at his feet as he drove with Aziraphale back to Soho. The entire trip was silent, the Bentley not even daring to play music for how tense the air had grown.

“So,” he started, knuckles white from how hard he clutched the steering wheel. They were parked on the street opposite his bookshop.

“So,” Aziraphale echoed, sounding equally nerve-wracked. But he found his courage much faster than Crowley and ploughed on. “I suppose we should-”

“ _Not here_ ,” he forced out between clenched teeth. And then he jerked open the door and was across the street before Aziraphale even had his seatbelt off.

Once inside his cosy ‘shop, Crowley stalked to the back room, grabbing three bottles of wine out of the small stacker near the couch. Aziraphale just managed to miracle two stemmed wine glasses before Crowley could tip the entire bottle back and guzzle.

“Do have some manners, Crowley dear,” Aziraphale admonished and pushed one of the glasses to him.

“Stop calling me that,” he growled, though it sounded much more like begging.

“I’m sorry. Old habits,” he said simply. “I can’t help it.”

Crowley just made a vaguely guttural noise and tipped his entire glass back in one swoosh, downing the liquid as if it were a shot. His next two followed suit.

“ _Slow down_ ,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll probably want to be sober for this conversation.”

“What conversation? We’re not having one.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he mocked, sipping devilishly innocent at his wine.

“You really are childish sometimes,” the angel grouched, deciding on his own glass of wine, but puckered at the bitter taste. _Cabernet Franc_. He sighed and summoned a bottle of Merlot to mix it with. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” Crowley argued.

“Oh, you foul man!” Aziraphale all but yelled. He’d lost his temper. “You cannot avoid this! I am _in love with you_ , and no amount of beating around the bush will get you out of confronting it!”

He softened then as if realising something. His tone fell significantly, and he sat back against his chair like all the air had gone out of him, fight totally drained. “But if you don’t feel the same, then I suppose this is appropriate behaviour to preserve our friendship.”

“No!” Crowley exclaimed, pushed forward from the cushions as if burnt. “You’re wrong, I-”

“About what?”

“I- I don’t _not_ -” He struggled for the words, unsure how to put it without sounding as foolish as it all made him feel. “The feeling is mutual,” he settled on, hiding behind his half-empty glass.

“You- oh,” was all Aziraphale said. A very warm feeling expanded in his chest and a smile rose until nearly blinding. “Oh, Crowley,” he crooned, besotted. “Why didn’t you bring it up as soon as you knew?”

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible. “What was that?”

“I _said_ ,” he huffed, then the heat ebbed, “that I didn’t want to find out as a result of you being dosed against your will.”

“It was an accident,” he repeated, but the words fell away weightless. “But I suppose it was all for the better. Who knows how long it would have taken us had this not happened.”

Crowley raised his glass at that. “I’m sorry, angel. I would have said something sooner if it weren’t for-”

“I know, darling,” he shushed. And in a moment of thoughtless bravery, Aziraphale moved from his chair to the open space on the couch, sidling very close to Crowley. Further emboldened, Aziraphale reached out and gently removed Crowley's sunglasses, setting them delicately on the table. 

"Alright?" he asked, gazing into his serpentine eyes. Crowley nodded, not breaking eye contact as he shifted to set his glass down next to them.

“So,” he intoned, aware of their proximity once Crowley had settled. “What do we do now, my love?”

There was only so much of the pet names Crowley could take before his mask of calm indifference shattered. With a strangled groan, he surged forward and captured Aziraphale up in a kiss. Aziraphale’s mouth tasted like chocolate and fruity wine, and Crowley bit into it like a candied apple, savouring his gasp of surprise. He sucked Aziraphale’s lower lip into his mouth and rolled it between his teeth, then released it to work on frenching the living daylights out of his angel.

Aziraphale, though inexperienced, was quick to rise to the challenge. He raked his hands through Crowley’s hair and then yanked, hard. Aziraphale had never heard something so sinful, so delicious. In fact, he was beginning to question where exactly to draw the line between the unholy and divine, because the fire on Crowley’s lips felt exquisitely rapturous.

When they broke apart, both were panting, chest heaving great sighs as they struggled to settle. Crowley couldn’t stop touching Aziraphale, fluttering his hands from his cheek to his curls to his waist to the tops of his thighs back up to his face. And, quite maddeningly, whenever Crowley lifted a hand, Aziraphale would trade a kiss. A kiss to his jaw, to his collarbone, to his nose, to just above his left eyebrow. Crowley had never felt so worshipped, and never so close to tears. Incandescent happiness unfurled in his chest and pushed against his ribcage, threatening to burst. He hadn’t felt such love in thousands of years, much around the same time he decided he never would. And yet, Aziraphale kept at it, whispering sweet nothings into his skin that meant literally everything to Crowley. A single tear slid out the corner of his eye and landed on the angel's forehead.

“My dear,” he said, worried. “I don’t mean to make you cry-”

“Don’t stop,” Crowley choked, and then pulled him in for another kiss.

“Don’t stop.” And he didn’t.

“Please, _Aziraphale!_ \- don’t stop.” And he didn’t.

“Don’t stop,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s chest. Like an invocation, a prayer pressed into the holiest skin he’d known since Eden. “Don’t you ever stop loving me.”

And he didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> i was also inspired by another textpost, but about how Crowley must secretly (or not so) have degrees in architectural, civil, and advanced engineering, as well as a load of other degrees to pull off half the things he managed. 
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading!!! I would appreciate thoughts/opinions in the comments, as I'm always looking to grow. you can find me on tumblr @sarahh-tonin, and hopefully, I'll be uploading a lot more fics throughout the next week or so.


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